I would like you to have it, Mr. Wells” he said, presenting him with the basket,“to remind you that everything is a question of wills.

It is a question of will, Mr. Wells,” he said, striving to imbue his slurred voice with a tone of authority. “That’s all.

Before cruelly vilifying them from a great height, the mudslingers at newspapers and journals should bear in mind that all artistic endeavors were by and large a mixture of effort and imagination, the embodiment of a solitary endeavor, of a sometimes long-nurtured dream, when they were not a desperate bid to give life meaning.

He had learned from experience that what he succeeded in putting down on paper was only ever a pale reflection of what he had imagined, and so he had come to accept that this would only be half as good as the original, half as acceptable as the flawless, unachievable novel that had acted as a guide, and which he imagined pulsating mockingly behind each book like some ghostly presence.

The most terrifying thing is sometimes not what we see, but rather what we are forced to imagine.

I don’t think traveling back in time on an empty stomach is a good idea.

True literature should rouse the reader, unsettle him, change his view of the world, give him a resolute push over the cliff of self-knowledge.

The paths that we choose don’t always take us where we want to go. Sometimes they take us where we need to go.

We are the authors of our own fate-we write it each day with every one of our actions.

Striving to achieve a dream is never a waste of time.